“You’re a strange little thing,” she said. “What is your secret?”
Chapter 10
The phone rang, startling Sam, and she set the box back in place on the dresser.
“Hi Sam,” said Beau. “I, uh . . . this sounds weird but I just had the strongest urge to call you.”
She stared at the wooden box, its colors dimming now.
“What I meant was, I thought I’d check to see if we’re still on for dinner tonight?”
“Sure.” She grimaced. No matter what he said, it felt like that awkward first-date stuff. What shall I wear? Where are we going? And of course, the other awkward question—where might this lead? Her past was checkered with too many first dates, too many one-night stands. The past few years had brought a certain freedom from that as she’d steered away from dating and concentrated on building her business and enjoying her solitude.
“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked, pulling her back to the present.
She laughed out loud at the unexpected question. “No, actually, I’m not.”
“I know this spot at the Rio Grande Gorge. Away from the bridge where all the tourists stop. We can drive to this pullout I know and then walk a little way, and there’s a flat rock ledge that is a great place to watch a sunset. If that sounds good to you, I can pick you up around six?”
“Perfect.” She hung up, completely relieved that he hadn’t suggested some romantic dress-up place, not that Taos had a lot of those anyway. Wherever they ate dinner, walking around on rocky terrain ahead of time was going to require comfortable shoes and casual clothing. She surveyed her closet and pulled out her best-fitting pair of jeans and a top that concealed the bulges she wanted concealed. She chided herself for trying to think ahead about any relationship with Beau. How silly. He undoubtedly had every hungry woman in town under fifty chasing after him. Sam knew she had to be at least five years older than he, and not a prize in the looks department. This was a friendship thing, a shared interest in a couple of abandoned houses. That’s all. That’s all she wanted.
She repeated it to herself three times.
Nevertheless, when she started to dress for the evening she found herself applying fresh eye makeup and adding a touch of gloss over the rose colored lipstick that was her normal shade. She even debated polishing her nails, but the past two days of scrubbing and hauling trash had taken their toll in ragged, broken ones so she opted for filing them down smooth and massaging in a lot of cuticle cream.
He showed up promptly, driving a blue Ford Explorer rather than the department vehicle. Gentlemanly to the core, he removed his Stetson as he approached her door and rang the bell. She knew this because she watched through the sheer drapes at the living room window. She chided herself for doing it, and let a full ten seconds go by before opening the door.
The ride through town and out to the gorge was filled with that inane ‘how was your day’ chitchat which seems to mark the beginning of new friendships that don’t yet have enough momentum to simply pick up where the last conversation ended. Sam told Beau about Rupert’s excitement over the mural’s being sent to New York for authentication. And this time she mentioned the sketchbook.
“How would that work?” she asked. “Does the book go with the house, or does it belong to Cantone?”
“Depends. If Cantone accidentally left it behind, I imagine he or his heirs might make a case for it belonging to him. On the other hand, Anderson—or his heirs—might make an equally good case for abandonment of the book. Or they might say that Cantone gifted the book to Anderson. Most likely it would end up belonging to the current home owner, Anderson.”
“He might be forced to sell assets to satisfy the mortgage too.”
“There’s that,” he agreed. “I’ll probably have autopsy results by tomorrow. If the body turns out to be Anderson, then we have to start looking in that direction for next of kin.”
Sam sat silently, contemplating that, while Beau pulled off the road and steered toward a little clear spot where he parked the SUV.
“This is it.”
She stood beside the vehicle, letting the breeze ruffle the short layers of her hair, while he got something from the back.
“Dinner,” he said, holding up a picnic basket. He handed it to her, while he carried a folded quilt and an industrial-sized flashlight. “Once that sun goes down it’s going to get pretty dark out here.”
She followed him down a narrow path that obviously didn’t see much traffic, to a rock ledge which was only about ten feet square. From the edge of it the earth fell away, a rocky field that went straight down eight hundred feet. The Rio Grande Gorge is a deep cut through volcanic rock, maybe a half-mile wide at the top, with the silvery ribbon of the Rio Grande River coursing through the bottom. Sam stood near enough to the edge to peer down at it and took a deep breath of sage and piñon, pungent from the afternoon rain.
“I like this spot because the wind isn’t so fierce here,” Beau said. “Out on the bridge you sometimes feel like you’ll get carried away.”
It was true. The way the surrounding cliff walls rose, they were in a sheltered spot and yet the western view was clear and she could see that the sun would dip to the level of the distant volcanoes in another hour or so.
“It’s so beautiful. And quiet!”
“Get this.” He faced the drop-off and let out a cowboy whoop. It echoed back, crossed the distance again, and reverberated off the rocky walls to fill the air with sound.
“I love it!” Her shriek rang back in triplicate.
He sent a musical Laaaaa . . . out over the chasm. As it began to echo back Sam gave a strong harmonic note of her own. He raised it. She raised him again. The music that filled the air sounded like a choir of hundreds. She felt her eyes widen at the magic of it. When she looked at him, his reaction was the same. He held her gaze as the sound faded.
“Wow.” It came out in a whisper. “Do musicians come out here and do this all the time?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s our secret.” He reached out and raised her chin and gave her a very soft kiss.
She blinked a couple of times. What the—
He stepped back. “Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend that—I don’t mean to push you—”
She shook her head, dismissing the apology. “It’s . . . it’s okay. It was a special moment.” It meant nothing. But why were her insides all fluttery?
He flashed her a killer smile. “Hungry?”
Oh boy. She wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Yes. In every possible way.
But she saw that he’d turned to the picnic basket and was pulling out a bottle of wine and a little plastic container. Keep it light, Sam.
“I’m afraid I’m no gourmet cook,” he said. “This is just your basic cowboy dinner.”
Well, hardly, she thought. The plastic tub contained guacamole dip and he pointed to a bag of corn chips. “Hold this,” he said, handing her the items while he whipped the quilt out and brought it to rest on the rocky ground. Then he rummaged in the basket and came up with a corkscrew. She watched him study it for a minute and then offered to open the wine if he would find glasses.
“Oops. I knew I would forget something.”
“Hey, I’ve drunk almost as much wine directly from the bottle as from a glass,” She said. Memories of cheap Thunderbird and Boone’s Farm.